Rumor has it that the man barricaded himself in Fantasyland, pronouncing that place his natural and God-given abode—for, truly, all his dreams for the presidency, resided only in Fantasyland.

He attempted to declare the place the Free Republic Of Romneyland, until he was wrestled to the ground, subdued, and dragged to the gates by a combo of Pluto, Tinker Bell, and Tiger Lily.

He then attempted to fill out a job application as Goofy, contending that the fact that his ass is screwed on backwards, so that he is forever walking away from himself, is pretty fucking goofy. Disney factotums allowed that this was true, but averred that he would scare the children and shock the horses, which indeed is what he has done, all over the nation, for these past many months.

In the photo above we see Captain Underpants exiting the area, accompanied by wife Ann. Her nose is wrinkled in disgust, perhaps indicating that her husband has again been huffing gas. It is also possible that he needs a change of underwear. It is said that he stubbornly clung to the same unwashed drawers for more than a year, claiming them to be his “lucky underpants.” No such luck, Cap’n. Your luck done run out.

And so now we have this pitiful sadsack, picked up today by the government boys, known by the name John Doe Duffel Bag.

This is the most singularly unexciting moniker I have ever heard. He might as well be called Boredom Bill. Yawny Yanni. Somnambulent Sam.

When he goes into the big house, he is going to have to be placed in solitary. Because all the other prisoners will laugh at him. John Doe Duffel Bag. That is beyond pathetic. The other inmates: he will have to do all of their laundry, iron their shirts, shine their shoes.

So it is best that he just stays in his own good hole, hiding his face in shame.

John Doe Duffel Bag. There is simply no hope for such a fellow. No will ever write a song, make a film, about John Doe Duffel Bag. ‘Cept maybe a cartoon.

(Now that noted slave-holder and Hebrew-fearer Ron “Rugs” Paul has retired from Congress, and would-be veep Paul Ryan has been adjudged The Loser, slinking back into the House, where the Orangeman is giving him the back of his hand, there is Hope that the Americans may no longer need to hear, at least for a time, incessant references to the late and unlamented howling imbecile Ayn Rand.

(Unlike this past summer, when it occasionally seemed like the woman would never climb back into her coffin, but would forever stalk the land, like some shrieking electrified corpse. It was during one such period that the piece below was penned, for the same shooting-star iPad app wherein appeared this thing and this thing.)

If the so-called “law of attraction” is valid—if, indeed, “that which is like unto itself is drawn”—then, as Joan McCarter pointed out, the selection of Paul Ryan as Mitt Romney’s running mate was inevitable.

Because if one thing has defined the defeated 2012 GOoPer standard-bearer this campaign season, it is that the truth is not in him: he is a lie with feet; a prevaricator of pre-whale-Pinocchio proportions.

Whatever the truth is, Mitt Romney, the man whose very ass is on backwards, will run from it like Richard Pryor with his body on fire, straight into the arms of its very opposite.

And thus it is so with Paul Ryan as well.

Ryan, we now know, will, like Romney, his co-aerialist on the Hindenburg that is the GOoPer ticket, lie about anything and everything. Including, as Richard Cranium outlined, the very roots of his political philosophy.

For Ryan is a life-long devotee of Ayn Rand. Except now, now that he is the defeated candidate for vice-president, he isn’t.

Preparing even then to serve aboard the Hindenburg, Ryan earlier this year lied to the National Review:

“You know you’ve arrived in politics when you have an urban legend about you, and this one is mine,” chuckles Representative Paul Ryan, the Budget Committee chairman, as we discuss his purported obsession with author and philosopher Ayn Rand.

Problem is, as Elspeth Reeve noted, the originator of this “purported” “urban legend,” is Ryan himself.

Captain Underpants is still out there, touring the land, his long-suffering family strapped to the roof of the car.

He is traveling the regions of the nation that made him The Loser. Of these there are many.

Unconfirmed reports indicate that he may be considering purchasing all or some of these regions. It is then believed that he will transform these properties into toxic waste dumps, deep-dish communication arrays for maintaining contact with the home world, garment districts for the production of magic underpants, and vast scientific facilities in which it will be determined if and how the bones may be replaced in his arms, and his ass rescrewed so that it is no longer on backwards.

Not long ago he was surrounded at all times by many hyper-alert Secret Service agents, who scrutinized his every move, and who would not even permit him to zip his own fly, in case this presented a Danger.

But these agents have since moved on to worthier pursuits, such as interrogating water lizards, and condemning cannon that have not fired a shot since the Harding administration.

And so today Underpants has been reduced to pumping his own gas, just like that majority of Americans he has bitterly flayed for voting for the black man, in exchange for the black man’s “gifts.”

Here we see him obtaining new fumes at a petrol station in La Jolla, California. One of his 217 homes is located in this community. The snapper of this photograph reports that “I talked to him for a good three minutes while he was filling his tank. I guess he’s moving to one of his houses in the town I live in, La Jolla.”

From the evidence of this encounter, and even in the photograph above, Underpants is not only fueling his vehicle with gas, he is also huffing it.

“At first he seemed happy,” the photog reported. “He was giggling and humming and singing snatches of ‘Puff The Magic Dragon,’ except he called it ‘Huff.’

“But then he began weeping and jabbering, demanding to know why ‘little Jackie Paper’ no longer ‘loved that rascal pup.’ He complained he had been promised a planet called ‘Honalee,” but apparently his ‘White Horse’ broke down before he could get there, and now he has lost his way. He went flapping towards the door of the gas station, crying for a map, but he was blocked from entering by the owner, who said he smelled like an overturned diesel, and should go away at once, before he went off like a bomb.

“He then tightened the straps on his wife Ann, who was attached to the roof of the car, and went roaring off down the boulevard. The nozzle was still in his tank, and he tore it out by the roots, screeching that he was off to ‘frolic in the autumn mist’ and vowing that ‘pirate ships would lower their flag when Huff roared out his name.’

“‘I’m Huff!’ was the last thing I heard him say, as he barreled round the corner. ‘I’m Huff!'”